I was lost. The woods stretched for miles all around me. I had no water, no food, and no idea where I was going.

But this wasn’t some deep backcountry wilderness hike. I was wandering an orienteering course at Umstead State Park, a small urban preserve only 10 minutes from Raleigh.

The O-club had given me a detailed topographic map, which told me that I was somewhere between two wavy lines and a dotted circle. My compass was equally mysterious: do I use the red end or the white end of the needle? Which way should I point it? And why won’t it line up with the north arrow on my map?

Finally, I stumbled upon an orange flag called a “control,” which was hidden at the bottom of a gully. For the next two hours, I slashed through nettle bushes and splashed through creeks, trying to find a half-dozen other control flags hidden in the forest. I arrived back to the orienteering base late that afternoon covered in ticks, sweat and poison ivy rashes.

I couldn’t wait to do it again.

Orienteering is more than reading a map and compass. It’s a mix of cross-country running and hide-and-go-seek in densely wooded forests and natural areas. Competitors are given a map marked with red circles, which indicate the locations of control flags scattered throughout the park. When orienteers locate a control, they stamp their card with a coded hole punch hanging from the flag. The goal is to find all of the controls as quickly as possible and get back to base.

Still scratching poison ivy sores, I showed up at Umstead the following week in baggy pants and socks pulled up to my knees. Last week had been practice; this week was a full-fledged O-meet with five different courses spread across 5,000 acres of parkland. Before handing me my map, a veteran orienteer and meet director offered me a few pointers:

“Be quick but don’t hurry. Make good, smart decisions out there.”

He started the watch, and I dashed into the woods, carrying my map and punchcard in a Ziploc bag and my compass on top of it. The first control was somewhere above a ravine, indicated by a series of V-shaped contours on the map. I was all adrenaline. In my haste, I overshot the flag by a half-mile and had to backtrack for 10 minutes before spotting the flag. I hurriedly punched my card and realigned my compass.

“Slow down,” I said out loud.

According to my map, the next control was stationed between a steep cliff and a finger of lake. I moved more carefully now, observing lake and land forms as I ran. To avoid getting too far off track, I checked my location on the map every 100 yards or so. I bushwhacked through briers toward the top of the cliff, where the orange control was nestled in the hollow of a fallen log.

I studied my map, surveyed the land around me, then headed in the general direction of the third flag. I quickly found it hidden between two rocks about a half-mile up a leafy slope.

I was getting it. Slowly, I was starting to understand how it all fit together — the map, the compass, the landmarks and topo lines. Last week, I had run blindly from point-to-point. But now I was beginning to see the big picture — literally. I looked at the whole map — not just the spaces between control flags — and tried to visualize the terrain: the contours of the hills, the shape of spurs along the ridge, the network of creeks draining into the lake.

Soon, I caught up with another orienteer, who was decked out in camouflage, cleats and protective shin guards called gaiters. He was hard-core, and I could tell he meant business by the way he wrinkled his forehead and narrowed his eyes at my approach. He wasn’t going to let an O-rookie beat him. Camo-Man headed west in search of an old footpath, but I decided to shortcut the trail by following the creek. It worked. I meandered southeast and finally spied the flag draped across a creek boulder.

As soon as I punched my card, I heard footsteps in the leaf litter. I ducked behind the boulder and watched Camo-Man circle the creek right above me. He couldn’t find the control. When he moved further upstream, I scooted stealthily down the creek and out of sight.

The course got tougher as the day wore on. But the hardest part wasn’t finding the flags. It was keeping my cool on an unusually warm day and not panicking when I got lost. I didn’t bring water with me, and I’d been running around in the woods for over an hour. The wavy lines on the map blurred together, and I started to second-guess myself: Is this the right way? ... maybe I went too far ... maybe I haven’t gone far enough ....

Dehydrated and dead-legged, I finally found the last flag tied to the massive arm of an old oak. Camo-Man arrived at the control right behind me. Now, we had to get back to base. Camo decided to skirt the lake shore, but on the map, the ridgeline looked like a more direct route. It was a risk, but I decided to try it.

I hacked through thorny thickets and vine-cluttered scrub along the ridge. I could see Camo slugging along the lake line below me. I leaped over rotting logs and was about to hurdle a fallen tree limb — when suddenly the limb slithered sideways in the leaves. It was too late — I was already airborne. I leaped over the sun-bathing snake, who flicked his forked tongue at me as I landed a few feet away.

Be quick but don’t hurry, I reminded myself.

For the last mile, I kept my eyes on the ground and not on the army-clad competitor below me. I glided down the back side of the ridge and, to my surprise, arrived at the base pavilion just ahead of Camo. We sat beside each other on a picnic bench, catching our breaths. He offered me a swig from his canteen, and for the next few minutes, we compared our paths on the map.

I stuck around for awhile, watching other orienteers arrive back at the base. They weren’t all that interested in their time or place. Almost as soon as they turned in their punch card, they started asking other finishers how they traveled the course. Dozens of orienteers surrounded a single map, pointing out their paths, nodding their heads, and exchanging funny stories about their journeys. One guy fell in the lake; another stepped right over a control hidden in a log. This, I realized, is what orienteering is all about.

After the meet was over, I wandered back into the forest by myself. I left map and compass behind and perched on a rock overlooking the lake. I had barely navigated four miles through a small state park. But I noticed that now the woods around me seemed a little bigger, and the world a little more spacious. The contours of my mental map had expanded, and in that quiet cathedral of forest, I didn’t mind getting lost between the lines.

(Backwoods Orienteering Klub’s next O-meet is Dec. 9 at Schenk Forest. For more info call the O-line at 919.839.1837.)

 

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